


A Dreamer Awake

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Laszlo Is A Disaster, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: A spree of murders has Laszlo determined to catch the killer by any means necessary, and John finds himself caught up in a scheme that has unexpected, but not entirely undesired, consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I _had_ to write a modern au, and like a fool I settled on this trope fest of a case fic.
> 
> Inspired by [this](http://themisanthropiclycanthrope.tumblr.com/post/174237706904/idrilearfalas-the-alienst-modern-au-an) Tumblr post and with many thanks to the cheerleaders encouraging it to happen. You know who you are!
> 
>  _The madman is a dreamer awake_ – Sigmund Freud

They might have been forgiven for thinking Laszlo’s apartment empty had they not bumped into Cyrus downstairs. The big man had confirmed Kreizler was home and told them to go right on up.

But as John let himself and Sara in, he wondered if Cyrus could have been mistaken. The place was eerily silent.

“Laszlo?”

A moment’s pause, then mumbled acknowledgment from somewhere within the apartment. John rolled his eyes and tried again.

“Laszlo! Sara’s here.”

This prompted something of a reaction, Laszlo appearing briefly - his head, anyway - around the edge of his bedroom doorway, glancing up just barely from the book held open in his palm.

“Good evening, Sara,” came the dutiful response before he disappeared once more.

John sighed, shared a long-suffering glance with Sara, then gave it one more shot.

“She’s got news!”

This, finally, got Laszlo’s full attention. He emerged from his bedroom, in full and minus the book, pulling off his spectacles and fixing Sara with his intense hawk’s stare.

“There’s been another one.” It wasn’t really a question, and Sara’s grim nod confirmed his guess was correct. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees and John suppressed a shiver. Even knowing it was coming, the news felt like a punch to the gut.

“Tell me.” His curiosity almost palpable, Laszlo ushered Sara over to the couch and in the same motion waved John toward the kitchen. “Make some coffee, John.”

John’s unamused glare went entirely unheeded and he trudged to the kitchen, obedient and only half as irritated as he rightly should be. He had known Laszlo long enough to be well acquainted with his brusque manner, and knew not to take offence. That was just Laszlo.

Besides, they had more important concerns than John’s ego at that moment so he let it go and made the coffee, half listening as Sara gave Laszlo a rundown of the facts John was already all too aware of.

“The victims this time were Ben Spencer and Jai de Souza. Found this morning by Ben’s brother Jordan after Ben failed to turn up to their weekly tennis session.” Sara’s voice remained steady, professional, but the small pause in her report spoke volumes. “It was just like the others: no sign of break in, a vicious, frenzied attack, cause of death massive blood loss as a result of multiple stab wounds.”

It wasn’t the first time John had been subjected to that particular mental image, and it was just as unpleasant this time. It was almost a relief to have his attention distracted by the motions of preparing the drinks, an activity that was always a bit of a mission in Laszlo’s disaster area of a kitchen.

“That’s all you have?” Laszlo asked of Sara, almost a demand.

“At the moment, yes.”

Laszlo frowned unhappily, making an obvious effort not to berate Sara for the lack of information. The CSI team were still working the scene and running tests so there wasn’t yet much more to add from an evidence point of view, and when John brought the coffees over, he could sense Laszlo’s impatience.

Sara accepted a steaming mug from John with a grateful smile, immediately curling her fingers around it as if in need of warmth. Laszlo took his absentmindedly, his thoughts elsewhere, and it had become habit now for John to offer him the cup with its handle angled toward his good hand. He received only a vague nod that might have been a thank you, but let it slide. Laszlo regularly forgot his manners when he was preoccupied. He instead busied himself shifting a pile of journals and assorted papers from a chair in order to join them while Laszlo continued to muse, fingers of his weak hand tapping restlessly against his knee.

“I need to see the scene.” Laszlo knew he would never be allowed onto an active crime scene, which only added to his growing sense of impotence. “How else am I to understand what he’s thinking, what he’s _feeling_? It’s in those moments he attacks that he reveals the most about himself.”

Sara looked like she wanted to protest Laszlo’s assumption that the killer was male, but held her tongue. It was a debate they’d already had, and while they hadn’t completely dismissed the notion they may be looking for a woman, Laszlo’s reasoning as to why it was more likely a man had been sound. John, meanwhile, couldn’t help but be slightly disturbed by Laszlo’s eager desire to get a close look at such a horrific sight.

“There must be photographs,” Laszlo persisted, but Sara could offer him only an apologetic grimace.

“Of course, but you know I can’t bring them off site and show them to members of the public. I’m already risking my job sharing this much with you.”

Laszlo made a noise of frustration. “If the police would just let me join the investigation!” It was a lament they had heard numerous times, Laszlo insisting that he should be called in as a consultant, and it remained a futile wish.

“If you hadn’t pissed off half the NYPD,” John pointed out reasonably, “maybe Teddy wouldn’t be having such a hard time convincing them to let you in.”

Laszlo pursed his lips, not at all pleased at the reminder. It was his own fault really, not holding back in voicing his opinion as to just how badly the police had screwed up a serial killer case the previous year. It probably didn’t help that John himself had written the most damning article, but after young Joseph had almost fallen victim, he could do nothing but agree with Laszlo.

“Perhaps if they weren't all such incompetent idiots,” Laszlo snarled. Thankfully, Sara also knew not to take that comment to heart and remained silent.

Laszlo set his cup down, the coffee sloshing perilously close to the rim, and rose to begin a restless pacing of the room. John recognized it as the physical manifestation of his agitated thoughts - something he had witnessed many times - and it was so far removed from Laszlo’s usual still calm that he always felt an urge to soothe him, to quiet his racing mind and restore a state of peace. He was pretty sure that wouldn’t be welcome, however, so he sat and watched with familiar concern.

“I’ll phone press liaison in the morning.” It wasn’t much, but John was desperate to find some way to help. “Maybe they’ll have—”

Laszlo cut him off with bark of, “Pointless!” and a dismissive wave of his arm. “They’ll tell you less than Sara already has.”

There wasn’t much point in sulking for Laszlo wasn’t paying him any attention, so John settled instead on silent disgruntlement that even Sara’s sympathetic grimace couldn’t alleviate.

Laszlo, for his part, looked like he wanted to kick something, and John briefly feared for the furniture, but the pacing abruptly stopped and he spun to Sara, his eyes suddenly bright. Alive.

“The brother!”

It only took Sara a second to catch his train of thought. “Jordan Spencer? What about him?”

“You say they had a weekly arrangement to play tennis, so I assume he and his brother must have been relatively close.”

“I don’t know,” Sara admitted. “I’m not the one who took his statement.”

“But you have his address?”

“It’ll be on file, yes.”

“You will text it to me in the morning?”

John could guess where this was going, and he didn’t much like it. “Hang on, Laszlo,” he began, only to suddenly find himself the focus of Laszlo’s fierce fervor.

“If I am to be denied direct insight into the killer’s mind, I can instead seek to understand him through his victims.” Laszlo spoke with such passion and conviction John’s objections died on his tongue. “How he chooses them, what it is about them that attracts him. If I can figure out his triggers, his patterns, I can predict when and where he is most likely to strike again and hopefully prevent any more deaths.”

It was, John conceded, a reasonable approach. So far, they knew little about the now eight victims beyond their all being gay couples and that the fact they were all killed in their homes in some kind of frenzied but methodical ritual seemed to preclude a typical hate crime and suggest instead a horrifying premeditation.

Sara looked uneasy, and John could guess why. Not only would inviting himself to interview witnesses not endear Laszlo to the police, but if they were to find out how he had gotten hold of the address…

But she also knew that if anyone stood a chance of catching this man, Laszlo, with his experience, insight, and dedication, would prove the obvious man to back.

“Okay.”

Laszlo smiled his satisfaction and whirled away toward his bedroom, ostensibly to plan the questions he proposed to put to Jordan Spencer, but before he could disappear John blurted, “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need,” Laszlo insisted, but John could be stubborn too. Someone had to keep an eye on Kreizler, minimise any damage he might cause. As even-tempered and sympathetic as he could be with his patients, he wasn’t exactly known for his tact when in pursuit of greater knowledge and understanding of the criminal mind, and the last thing they needed was for a bereaved relative to complain to the police.

“I’m coming,” he stated firmly, refusing to break eye contact, and Laszlo, after some consideration, finally nodded agreement.

“Very well. Be here for seven.”

And then he was gone, leaving both John and Sara to wonder exactly what they had gotten themselves into.


	2. Chapter 2

“My name is Doctor Laszlo Kreizler, and this is my colleague, John Moore. I am a clinical psychologist and I was hoping you might permit us to ask you a few questions.”

The man with the messy blond hair and pale, drawn face stared at the card Laszlo had handed him, then raised his wary gaze back up to study Laszlo himself. A quick flick of his eyes to John didn’t seem to put him any more at ease and John was glad Laszlo had omitted to introduce him as a reporter.

“What about?” Jordan Spencer asked, weary rather than hostile. “If this is about Ben, I already gave a statement to the police.”

“I know.” Laszlo was using the soft, calming tone of voice he always employed with his patients. Soothing. “And I am terribly sorry for your loss. But the more information we have, the more likely it is we will be able to prevent this happening to anybody else, and you may know something that didn’t immediately strike you as significant.”

It looked for a moment that they were about to have the door slammed in their faces, but then the man seemed to slump, his shoulders drooping in resignation as he stood back to allow them entry. “I guess you may as well ask your questions, but I don’t see how I’ll be able to help.”

John had seen Laszlo at work a few times in the past, but he never ceased to marvel at how he could so successfully empathize with his subject, regardless of age, gender, or walk of life, how he could coax them into opening up and revealing themself.

Jordan Spencer proved no exception. He was soon telling Laszlo the details of his and Ben’s childhood - fairly typical as far as John could tell - and on into the more recent past.

“What about his work?” Laszlo asked. “Did he experience any problems there?”

“No, none. He loved his job and got on well with everyone.”

“And outside of work? What did he and Jai do in their spare time?”

“They both belonged to the gym, the same place we go to play tennis.” Spencer thought for a few seconds, his face tight with the memory. “Other than that? The usual stuff, I guess. They went to the theater, out to dinner, clubs.”

“Ben never mentioned any trouble? Any altercations?”

Jordan gave a humorless laugh. “That’s why they were killed isn’t it? Because they were gay, like the others. It’s sick.” He shook his head with a despair that matched John’s own. “Of course they encountered prejudice, who doesn’t? But Ben never mentioned anything that particularly stood out. Nothing dangerous or violent.”

“It wouldn’t necessarily have been a vicious encounter, not at first. There was nothing even a little out of the ordinary?”

“No.” Spencer was beginning to get frustrated, whether from Laszlo’s questions or his own inability to provide helpful answers, John couldn’t tell. It was more than likely a combination of both.

“What about those restaurants and clubs?” John asked, drawing the conversation back to an easier line of questioning. He had up until that point remained silent, letting Laszlo lead, and Jordan seemed surprised at the reminder of his presence. “Was there anyplace they liked in particular? Went to regularly?”

“There’s that Italian place on Fifth?” came after a moment’s consideration. “Giuseppe’s, I think. That was their favorite place to eat. And they would usually go to the Pot Of Gold or the Brighton for a night out. I went with them a couple times and it was always good fun.”

The man seemed to be sinking deeper into melancholic nostalgia, which wasn’t much of a surprise considering his recent bereavement. Thankfully, Laszlo seemed to be wrapping up.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Spencer. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please give me a call.”

“Yeah, sure,” Spencer muttered, his mind still clearly in the past as he walked them to the door. As he let them out, however, his eyes suddenly regained their focus and he fixed Laszlo with a desperate stare. “You'll catch him, won’t you?”

“We will do our very best,” Laszlo assured him. “I promise you that.”

* * * *

Laszlo sat on the couch, head tipped back against the cushion and eyes closed, offering John observations and thoughts to add to the notes he was making on the laptop. They were attempting to produce a profile of the victims, compiling everything they’d learned from Jordan Spencer and adding it to what they knew about the others.

It all amounted too very little, and John was feeling the same frustration as Laszlo, limited as they were in their inquiries.

Sara’s arrival briefly banished the lassitude that had crept over them, until it became clear she had little more to offer from the official side of the investigation. Laszlo sank back into his quiet cogitation while John duly entered Sara’s meagre additions on the computer. Sara stood behind him where he sat at the breakfast bar, reading their notes over his shoulder to see what they had discovered from the victim’s brother.

“Wait, go back!”

Her sudden exclamation almost made John jump, so absorbed had he been in ensuring he had included everything. He obliged, scrolling slowly back up the page as Sara leaned closer to the screen.

“There!”

John paused and waited to be enlightened as Sara pulled her notebook from a pocket and flicked through the pages. Laszlo had stirred at the excitement in her voice and was watching the two of them with curiosity.

Finally, Sara found what she was searching for and dropped the notebook onto the laptop’s keyboard with a small flourish. “I thought that rang a bell!”

John immediately spotted what she was talking about and felt a flutter of exhilaration. He wouldn’t, however, let himself get too carried away.

“It might just be a coincidence,” he pointed out, the voice of reason. “A lot of people must go there.”

By this point their animation had roused Laszlo, who joined them at the computer, hand resting lightly on John’s shoulder as he peered down at Sara’s notebook, catching on as quickly as John had. One of the other couples - Richard Blake and Charlie King, victims of the second known attack - had also frequented the Pot Of Gold nightclub.

“You’re right, of course, John,” he conceded, “but this is the first tangible lead we’ve found.”

There was a new animation in Laszlo’s voice, and John felt his fingers flex with anticipation at this potential progress.

“Sara, would it be possible for you to inquire into whether our other victims ever visited the club?”

“I’ll see what I can find out.” It was a line of questioning that shouldn’t arouse too much suspicion in her superiors.

“Meanwhile, I shall visit the place myself,” Laszlo continued, speaking more to himself than John and Sara. “If he is using the club as a hunting ground, I might be able to get a feel for how he’s selecting his victims. And there’s every chance he may still be going there regularly, for there are no signs yet that he plans to stop.”

As much as that thought horrified John, he couldn’t help but latch on to the less grim aspect of Laszlo’s proposal. Perhaps as a kind of defense mechanism.

“You plan to hang around a gay club staring at men?” he asked, unable to hide his mounting amusement, imagining Laszlo awkwardly fending off unwanted admirers. “Now that I’d love to see.”

Laszlo hummed in thought, apparently recognizing some sense in John’s words, but it was Sara who struck upon the obvious solution.

“You need a cover,” she suggested, “to be able to blend in without attracting too much attention to yourself.”

Laszlo was nodding agreement and John trying to contain his grin at the thought of his friend looking anything other than painfully out of place in a gay club when Sara completed her train of thought.

“You should take John with you, pretend you’re there together.”

“Wait…” John’s mind slammed to a halt and his smile vanished. He stared at Sara, aghast. “What?”

Laszlo, damn him, was nodding again, this time with more certainty. “Yes, that’s a good idea. It would grant us the opportunity to observe the other people there whilst pretending we are merely enjoying a night out together.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

Sara’s smile was far too amused for John’s liking. “I’m suggesting a fake date, John, not some form of torture.”

That’s where Sara was wrong. John could imagine nothing worse than having to _pretend_ to be on a date with Laszlo - not because it was an abhorrent thought, but precisely because it _wasn’t_.

Laszlo was still thinking, ignoring John’s discomfort in favor of the potential this new plan offered. “And we know our killer preys on _couples_. What better way to goad him into giving himself away?”

John spluttered with indignation. “So now I’m _bait_?”

“Do you want to stop this man or not?” Laszlo demanded, impatient now with John’s complaints.

“Of course I do.” That went without saying, really, and was absolutely _not_ the reason for John’s reluctance.

“Then surely you can suffer one or two evenings as my date.”

John’s mouth was suddenly dry and he fought to keep his expression neutral, like the prospect was as inconsequential as Laszlo asking for help cataloging his journals. He gave a nonchalant shrug, buying himself time to ensure his voice would be steady when he spoke.

“Sure. Okay. Why not?”

He didn’t miss Sara’s gleeful smirk and bestowed upon her his very best glare.

It had absolutely no effect.


	3. Chapter 3

The deep bass of the music resonating in his bones, John followed Laszlo through the club, weaving between the close-packed crowd to the bar where they waited to be served.

Maybe it was the heady atmosphere making him bold that prompted John’s next action, maybe an awareness of the need to maintain a convincing cover, or maybe it was just a moment of madness. He didn’t stop to analyze, just pressed up close behind Laszlo and looped an arm around his waist, nestling his cheek into the shaggy hair Laszlo was wearing loose for the evening.

Laszlo went rigid and it took him several seconds to realize that the guy behind the bar was talking to him. He stumbled over his order and had to repeat himself more loudly when the man failed to catch his mumbled, accented words over the combined noise of the music and general bustle of the club.

Drinks in hand, they found a booth far enough away from the main sound system that they could hear themselves think, but situated so as to provide a good view of the room. Sliding onto the seat beside Laszlo, John stopped only when they were shoulder-to-shoulder and let his hand come to rest on Laszlo’s thigh.

Laszlo almost jumped from the seat.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, eyes darting from John’s hand to his face in flustered confusion.

“Showing you affection,” John answered, remarkably calm considering the blush he’d brought to Laszlo’s cheeks. Considering how close they currently were. “I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, it’s only natural that I should want to touch you.”

Laszlo considered this, and must have reached the conclusion that it made sense for he didn’t ask John to remove his hand, merely picked up his wineglass and took a long swallow. The last thing John wanted was to make him uncomfortable, but after the fortifying drink, Laszlo relaxed a little, then stunned John by not only accepting the presence of his hand but covering it with his own.

John had to remind himself how to breathe.

Laszlo wouldn’t look at him, gaze remaining resolutely fixed on their surroundings. It was just for their cover, the rational part of John’s mind insisted, Laszlo only doing what he thought would help them blend in, but it didn't stop him recognizing the trust implicit in Laszlo having given him his weak hand. Purely practical, so he could use his good arm to drink, that was all.

Still, it made John’s heart swell in his chest.

Nothing much happened for a while, the both of them scoping out the club and its patrons. John wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, for as yet they had no real profile of the killer and he lacked the insight into people’s heads that Laszlo possessed. Even so, he tried to gather as much information as possible, anything at all that might be of some use to Laszlo later.

After a half hour of this, however, John began to grow restless and announced his intention to order another drink, disentangling his hand from Laszlo’s with no little regret.

“Would you like another?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” Laszlo was still nursing his first glass of wine, no doubt trying to keep a clear head.

As he waited at the bar, someone appeared at his elbow and John turned to find himself the recipient of a warm smile and appraising gaze.

“Hi.” The man had short, sandy hair, brown eyes a few shades lighter than Laszlo’s, and a smile that held a promise. “I’m James.”

“John,” John replied, feeling suddenly like an awkward teenager. He hadn’t prepared for this, had been so focused on the investigation and Laszlo that he hadn’t considered the possibility _he’d_ be the one fending off admirers, and his usual smooth ease had abandoned him.

James seemed to find his bewilderment charming. “You here alone?”

That reminded John of Laszlo, waiting alone over in their booth and he offered James a regretful smile. He sounded like a nice guy, and was ruggedly attractive to boot, but John didn’t hesitate before replying, “I’m afraid not.”

“Shame.” James looked genuinely disappointed but recovered quickly and grabbed a napkin from the bar. “If you do ever find yourself in need of company…” He jotted a phone number down on the napkin and gave it to John, his hand lingering a moment on John’s arm before he flashed a brilliant smile and disappeared back into the crowd.

Collecting his drink, John returned to the booth and rejoined a Laszlo who was lost in quiet contemplation. There not being anything especially odd about that, John settled in to enjoy the cool beer.

It was several minutes later that Laszlo finally broke his silence.

“Who was that man?”

The hint of jealousy coloring Laszlo’s question was probably all in John’s imagination. More likely he was just weighing up the chances of John having just been propositioned by a serial killer.

“Dunno,” John shrugged, for wasn’t that the truth? “Said his name was James, gave me his number.”

“Oh.” Laszlo’s gaze slid away, suddenly finding the throng of bodies on the dance floor of immense interest. “I see.”

“Don’t worry,” John said, playfully bumping Laszlo with his shoulder. “I told him I was taken.” It was meant to be a joke, but Laszlo remained stony faced.

“But you’re not,” he said, expression perfectly blank. “Not really. If you want to…”

“I don’t.”

Laszlo didn’t seem entirely convinced but let it go, resuming his vigilant watch. It was infuriating, not knowing what he was thinking, but John would never ask, too afraid of what he might reveal himself.

His second beer getting low alerted John to just how long they’d been sitting there in relative silence, not acting at all like a couple on a night out together.

He could think of one solution.

“We should dance.”

Laszlo looked at him as if he’d gone mad, scandalized by the very suggestion. “I don’t dance.”

“Nobody comes to nightclub and doesn’t dance,” John argued reasonably.

“We’re here to observe.”

“We’ve been sitting here for over an hour like a couple of outcasts. People are probably starting to get suspicious.”

“Go and dance if you want, I shan’t stop you.”

“I don’t want to dance on my own.”

“There are plenty of people here,” Laszlo pointed out, voice perfectly neutral. “I’m sure you’ll find a taker. Maybe James is still around.”

“Christ, Laszlo, I don’t want to dance with James!”

They stared at each other, both stunned by John’s outburst and both equally at a loss as to how to respond. It was John who recovered first, wanting desperately to backtrack. “Forget it,” he muttered, knowing the chances were slim but hoping nonetheless.

Not daring to look at Laszlo, he turned away and finished the rest of his beer in one long swallow. He could feel Laszlo’s gaze on him and it took a concerted effort not to squirm. Needing an escape, he was contemplating going up to the bar for another drink - something stronger - but it was Laszlo who rose first. Moving to stand before John, he extended his good hand.

John stared at it in mute incomprehension.

“You want to dance, don’t you?” Laszlo asked. When John finally managed a nod, he made an impatient motion with his hand. “Well, I am asking you to dance.”

John’s mouth opened, but he closed it again when any words failed to materialize, and then his hand was in Laszlo’s and he was being led to the dance floor.

Once there, Laszlo’s plan hit a snag. He stood in place, shuffling his feet awkwardly until John took pity on him and pulled him into a loose embrace that allowed them to move together to the music. Laszlo raised his arms, only to drop them back to his sides, and John felt a flash of panic, worried that he’d taken too much of a liberty. But then the arms came up again and this time wound around John, left palm finding purchase just below his shoulder blades, right thumb hooking into one of the belt loops on his pants.

If John’s steps fell out of rhythm, Laszlo didn’t appear to notice.

John closed his eyes, letting their surroundings fall away - the club, the revelers, even the music - until there was only him and Laszlo. It was probably selfish of him, wanting every second to stretch to infinity, trying to commit every moment to memory, but Laszlo was no longer uncomfortable, quiet happy to let John lead him in a dance that was more a gentle swaying of bodies.

It was over all too soon. A couple songs later, Laszlo pulled back a little and turned his head, bringing his lips close to John’s ear so he wouldn’t have to shout to be heard. John tried his utmost not to shiver as warm breath ghosted across his skin.

“I think that’s all the dancing my two left feet can manage tonight. One more drink before we leave?”

John didn’t trust himself to speak so he nodded and forced his arms to release Laszlo from their hold, cursing the stab of disappointment behind his ribs.

This time, when they took their seats once more, John left a respectful gap between them. He had already taken far too much advantage of this “date” and didn’t want to push his luck any further, and so he was left stunned when Laszlo was the one to reach out to him, long fingers curling around John’s hand.

Laszlo looked just as surprised by his own boldness and gave John a bashful smile that was half apology. John brushed it off with a grin and gave Laszlo’s hand a gentle squeeze. He didn’t mind, not at all.

* * * *

The still, cool night air was a shock after the heat and noise of the club, almost like they had passed through a portal into another world.

And, as Laszlo hailed a cab, John was already missing the fantasy they had constructed within that alternate universe.

He was so busy trying to cling to the remaining threads of that illusion that it took him a moment to realize Laszlo given the driver an address John didn’t recognize.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Ignoring John’s look of confusion, Laszlo declined to elaborate and John was forced to wait out the ride to an unfamiliar street and follow Laszlo into a tiny, sparsely furnished basement apartment.

“So?” John prompted as Laszlo went directly to his laptop, which was somehow already here in this strange place. “Where are we?”

“I told you, home.” At John’s frustrated growl he continued, “Where we will live for the duration of the investigation.”

“Why?” asked John, still baffled.

“We know the killer strikes at his victims’ homes. I didn’t want to risk putting your grandmother or Cyrus and Stevie in harm’s way.”

“So we _are_ bait?” The thought that they might find themselves the subjects of this killer’s rage made John feel nauseous, and it must have shown for Laszlo hastened to reassure him.

“It’s just a precaution.” He sounded far too unconcerned for John’s liking.

“Sure.”

Not reassured in the slightest, John left Laszlo to his note making and went to explore. There wasn’t much to see, but it quickly became clear that Laszlo had to all intents and purposes moved in already - there were clothes in the wardrobe and drawers, the makings of coffee and basic food supplies in the kitchen - and John supposed he should fetch some of his own belongings too.

A task for tomorrow, for he was tired, drained from their night out - _Christ, he was getting old_ \- and mentally exhausted from his heightened awareness of Laszlo’s presence, his _proximity_. He needed to get some damn sleep before his hitherto suppressed feelings ran away with him.

And that presented him with a new problem.

“Laszlo?”

“Hmn?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“Yes. We hardly require more for the purposes of our cover.” He didn't look up from the screen, clearly not considering it much of an issue. “I’ll take the couch. I doubt I will sleep much, anyway.”

He gestured to the couch, where already sat a folded blanket with a pillow on top. John guessed he should be grateful for Laszlo’s selfless act of gifting John the more comfortable option, but it stung somehow, that he didn’t even consider the possibility of them sharing, almost like a rejection.

John told himself to stop being such a fool.

“Well, make sure you do get some sleep.”

“Yes, yes,” Laszlo mumbled, not really listening, “of course.”

As John took himself to bed, he didn’t know whether to despair more of himself or Laszlo.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning greeted John with a moment of disorientation as he struggled to recall why he wasn’t waking in his own bedroom.

Then the memories of the previous night came flooding back, bringing with them a new confusion of emotions. He allowed himself to linger a moment on the vivid yet almost dreamlike memory of holding Laszlo close and moving together to the music of the club, the feel of Laszlo’s arms around him, the press of their chests, then abruptly scolded himself for his love-struck schoolboy mooning, threw the covers back and dragged himself out of bed.

Laszlo was already up, if he’d actually slept at all, perched in front of his laptop, mug of coffee that had long since gone cold at his elbow. Engrossed in whatever he was working on, he didn’t seem to notice John’s presence. Until he replaced the mug with a fresh coffee.

“Thank you.” Laszlo looked up from the screen long enough to grace John with a warm smile of gratitude and John felt instantly lighter.

“More research?” John asked as he dropped onto the couch with his own mug. The blanket and pillow looked like they’d been used, if only briefly.

“I’m going back over all the notes and evidence from each murder, looking for any other patterns.”

Laszlo was nothing if not tenacious, and John admired his single-minded determination. If only he could spare a little of that brilliant mind for the more practical matter of taking care of himself.

“Any luck?”

“Nothing definitive.” Laszlo frowned at his lack of progress, rubbing at his beard with two fingers – a small indication of his frustration that John was all too familiar with.

“So we’ll be going back to the club tonight?” John both anticipated and dreaded the prospect.

“It’s our best lead yet. Our _only_ lead.” No question as to whether or not John wanted to join him again. They both knew the answer to that already.

John drained his coffee and, feeling infinitely more alert, announced his intention to go fetch some fresh clothes from home.

“I’ll see if Stevie’s free,” Laszlo offered, picking up his phone. “He can drive you.”

* * * *

Ever since Laszlo had taken on Stevie’s case, kept him out of juvenile detention, and helped him secure a place in college, the young man was always happy to grant him a favor, and John was grateful for the lift.

Mostly.

“So you an’ the Doc are movin’ in together, huh?” Stevie asked, darting a curious glance across at John.

“No, we…we’re not…” John stumbled over his response, thrown by the suggestion and its appeal. “We’re not _really_ …” Then he caught the smirk playing at the corner of Stevie’s mouth. “Little shit,” he muttered with no real heat.

Stevie only grinned.

But Stevie’s ribbing proved preferable to his grandmother’s haughty disdain.

“Out all night again, John?” It was almost as if she’d been lying in wait, ready to proclaim her eternal despair over her grandson’s failings. “Drinking, I suppose.”

“I’m helping Laszlo with something.” It was best not to volunteer too many details. His grandmother’s imagination was vivid enough as it was. “I’ll be staying with him for a few days.”

“Kreizler?” Her scornful scoff eloquently expressed her feelings for the man. “You shouldn’t spend so much time with him, he’s nothing but trouble.”

She had more to say on the subject, but John left her to rant to the empty room. He’d heard it all before, and nothing he said could change her mind.

Still, he ensured Harriet would be around to take care of anything she might need, and bent to kiss her cheek before he left. He owed her a lot, and did love her, despite her foibles.

On the journey back, John requested they make a quick stop to pick up some food as he suspected – quite rightly as it soon became clear – that Laszlo wouldn’t have yet taken a break.

“Stop that for a minute and come eat,” he instructed as he spread the cartons out on the low table in front of the couch so as not to disturb the piles of books and papers Laszlo had covered the small dining table with.

Laszlo looked for a moment like he was going to decline, but, to John’s surprise, put down the book he was holding without protest and joined John on the couch.

“You’ve made no further progress then?” John asked, but he already knew the answer, could tell by Laszlo’s demeanor. There was a listlessness about him that indicated just how discouraged he felt, displeased at his own failure. A far cry from the animated ball of energy he became whenever he made a breakthrough in his work.

Hoping to amend that, even just a little, John passed Laszlo a carton of noodles, watching the corner of his mouth curve upwards with the realization John had fetched him something from one of his favorite restaurants. For all that he so often forgot meals, Laszlo did enjoy food, and John was glad to have brought a smile back to his face.

Before long, however, they were back at work. John was trying to make himself useful, providing a sounding board for Laszlo whilst reading some of the journals Laszlo had selected as containing potentially pertinent information. John could only wonder what the hell had ever possessed Laszlo to want to delve into the minds of people like the individuals detailed in the case studies and articles. For his own part, he would rather remain ignorant as to what made such disturbed minds tick.

He wouldn’t deny, however, that some of the insights were fascinating, if unpleasant.

It was no small relief to be able to close the books and go get ready for the club, although that brought its own inherent set of anxieties as he prepared to spend another evening pretending he and Laszlo were dating.

He emerged from the bathroom to find Laszlo waiting for him.

“Ready?” he asked as he grabbed his wallet and made sure he had his keys, looking up when a response failed to materialize. Laszlo was staring at him, eyes caught on the patch of chest revealed by the V of his shirt, the couple of buttons he’d deliberately left unfastened.

“How do I look?” he joked, ignoring the way his heart started pounding under that intense gaze.

Laszlo blinked, his cheeks coloring as he realized he’d been caught staring. “Fine,” he muttered, bland and dismissive and maybe he’d just been lost in thought and it meant nothing.

“Only _fine_?” John pouted, feigning hurt and hoping the real disappointment he felt like a stone in his stomach didn’t show on his face.

“Don’t sulk, John.” Laszlo had recovered, all business now as he shepherded John to the door. “You know I am a poor judge of such things.”

John chose to ignore him and sulked all the way to the club. Childish, yes, but Laszlo could at least put a _little_ effort into being his fake boyfriend. It would likely be the closest John would ever get to the real thing.

He was still quietly brooding on the injustice of life when they entered the club and was therefore taken by surprise when Laszlo took his hand, keeping firm hold as they waited at the bar to be served.

They had to let go in order to collect their drinks and find a place to sit, and John mourned the loss. And so as soon as they had settled in a corner, John slid an arm around Laszlo, gratified that this time he didn’t jump a mile. He wouldn’t push, but he’d take whatever Laszlo felt comfortable giving.

He thought his heart would leap right out of his chest when Laszlo pressed into his side and laid his head on his shoulder. It was so out of character and yet felt so natural and it was almost painful to remind himself none of it was real. John didn’t move, afraid to break the spell, just enjoying the feel of Laszlo’s body curled against him. It was selfish, he knew, but he would berate himself later for taking advantage of the situation. For now he wanted to cling to the fleeting intimacy.

It was always, inevitably, going to end. After a while, Laszlo straightened and John reluctantly loosened his hold and let him go. He didn’t go far, however, and moments later leaned close again to speak.

“What if our man isn’t a patron?”

It took far too long for John to catch on to what Laszlo was referring to, lost as he had been in entirely different thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“What if he works here? Behind the bar or on the door, something that would allow him to watch without seeming out of place.”

Laszlo’s thoughts had been on the case all along. Of course. What else had John expected?

“Yeah, makes sense.” John tried to inject some enthusiasm into his tone but it was difficult when his heart had just been crushed. Hopefully, the noise of the club covered his dejection.

Laszlo rose, muttered something about returning shortly, and then wove his way through the mass of bodies in the direction of the bar. Left alone to his thoughts John risked sinking into a pit of maudlin self-pity, so he pulled his cell from his pocket and tried to distract himself, sending a message to update Sara on Laszlo’s latest brainwave, then checking his email and the news.

There was, however, only so long he could fiddle with his phone before he started to look like a wallflower, but when he realized almost twenty minutes had passed that worry was replaced with a more unsettling concern.

Where the hell was Laszlo?

Most likely he was bugging the bar staff with questions and generally making a nuisance of himself, but in the glimpses John got through the ever-moving crowd, he could see no sign of him.

Another couple of minutes and he gave in. Laszlo had a knack for finding trouble, and it usually fell to John to get him out of it.

A check at the bar proved unfruitful, so John continued on around the edge of the room, looking at the faces in each group of revelers, trying to spot that familiar figure amongst the hundreds of strangers.

Equal parts worried and annoyed – a familiar state whenever Laszlo was involved – John was about to try calling his cell when he noticed the sign for the bathrooms. Unless Laszlo had insinuated himself into the staff area behind the bar – which wasn’t entirely outside the realms of possibility – or left the club altogether, it remained the one place John hadn’t checked.

Turning into the short corridor, John veered to one side, dodging a young guy with spiky blond hair coming the other way, and vaguely registered the two men tucked into the corner, one pressing the other up against the wall, head bent to suck at his neck, hands wandering hungrily, groping. A roll of his eyes and John was pushing open the bathroom door, leaving them to it.

Until a flicker of recognition tickled in the back of his mind and he paused.

And with a hot flare of anger igniting in his gut, he was dragging the ardent stranger away from Laszlo, shoving him back, almost snarling.

“Get your hands off him!”

Surprise flashed across the stranger’s face, replaced in a heartbeat by an indolent smirk as he shook himself off, straightened his jacket.

“Jealous, eh?” The toothy, self-assured smile was just asking for a punch. “It’s not my fault he ain’t finding satisfaction at home and has to look elsewhere.”

John’s hand balled into a fist, nails biting deep into his palm with the ferocity of his anger, but a hand on his wrist stayed his arm.

“John.”

Laszlo’s voice was calm, soothing, water to the flames, and John took a breath, his fury cooling to a simmer.

The asshole laughed, amusement glittering in his icy eyes. “Good boy, John.” He turned his insouciant shark’s grin on Laszlo, winked. “See you around.”

Laszlo’s fingers gave a gentle squeeze, anticipating John’s reaction, and John held his tongue, his teeth grinding painfully as the man sauntered away.

But as soon as he’d disappeared John rounded on Laszlo.

“What the fuck was that, Laszlo?”

Laszlo blinked at him, surprised by the unexpected force behind the question – the _demand_.

“I was talking with one of the bartenders, and he pointed the man out, said he’d caused trouble in the past by lurking around the bathroom with obvious intent.” Laszlo sketched a gesture through the air, one that John guessed was supposed to imply Laszlo’s consequent actions had been perfectly reasonable. “I considered it worth investigating.”

John remained incredulous. “You thought you’d let him feel you up on the off-chance he’s a serial killer?”

“I wanted to get an idea of his state of mind, and I could hardly start asking questions. That would have made him suspicious.”

John let out a noise of frustration, scrubbed a hand over his face as he tried to rein in his whirling emotions. Fear and despair and incredulity and, yes, maybe a little jealousy.

Most of all, he hoped that particular one didn’t show.

Laszlo remained confused, staring wide-eyed at John as he tried to make sense of his overreaction. Suddenly afraid he would use his psychologist’s skills to make a deductive leap, John thought it best to divert his attention back to the case.

“Let’s go back in.” Without waiting for a response, he headed back into the club proper, determined to order another drink and attempt to forget. That plan fled, however, when Laszlo took his hand and guided him instead to the dance floor.

John must have looked stunned, and he knew he was gaping like an idiot, for Laszlo gave a shrug and a small, self-conscious smile, waiting for John to take the lead.

Laszlo didn’t apologize, not when he thought he was in the right, but perhaps this was his small way of making amends.

It was likely a vain hope that Laszlo enjoyed the dance as much as John did, although he seemed happy enough to be held and guided through a handful of songs. Like all good things, however, it had to come to an end, and John purposely didn’t think about how much he missed the press of Laszlo’s body against his when they parted.

They returned to the bar, mostly as an excuse for Laszlo to assess more of the staff, and lingered nearby with their drinks, quietly observing. Perhaps it was his preoccupation that made Laszlo amenable to the arm John looped around his waist, his distraction that had him leaning into the embrace, or perhaps it was merely the need to keep up appearances.

John didn’t dare hope for more.

As things started to wind down, the crowd thinning as all but the hardiest of revelers began to make their way home, Laszlo decided to follow suit. He continued to study faces as they made their way out and joined the scattering of people waiting for cabs, and John kept his arm tucked around that narrow waist. They were still play-acting, after all, and Laszlo was yet to voice a complaint.

They secured a cab, and John finally, regrettably, had to let go.

“Good evening, boys?”

The driver was obviously one of the chatty sorts, grinning at them in the rear view mirror.

“Yes, thank you.” Laszlo sounded genuine, or maybe he was just being polite.

“Ready for bed now, though, eh?”

“Oh yes, quite.”

John couldn’t be sure the double entendre was intended, yet he couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. The implication that they were heading to bed _together_ , while a heady thought, would unfortunately never become a reality, but it was a delight to witness Laszlo’s rarely seen playful side.

He caught Laszlo’s eye and his chest constricted with a sudden rush of affection. The urge to take his hand, to reclaim that lost contact, was so strong he pressed bruises into his thigh, gripping it tightly with restless fingers so as to prevent his hand reaching across.

 _Christ_ , he was fucked.

John endured the rest of the drive in an awkward state of discomposure, responding to their friendly driver in monosyllables and certain that Laszlo _must_ be able to read his painfully obvious thoughts. As soon as Laszlo had directed the driver to stop, he all but leaped from the car, keen to get inside and shut himself away for the rest of the night with his stupid pining heart.

Laszlo, however, wasn’t following, and when John looked back it was to see the man still standing on the sidewalk, staring off up the road after the rapidly disappearing cab.

“Laszlo?”

He didn’t seem to have heard, so John retraced his footsteps and gave his shoulder a shake.

“Hey, Laszlo!”

“Taxis.”

John frowned at the non sequitur. “Sorry?”

“He drives a taxi.”

Before John could prod him for further clarification, Laszlo had burst back into motion and John was left to jog after him as he rushed inside. Laszlo was already starting up his laptop when John stumbled in, impatience evident in the set of his shoulders, the drumming of his fingers on the table.

John was slowly beginning to catch on.

“The killer?”

“Yes. He gets to observe, to pick his victims from the fares he drives and, most importantly, he knows exactly where they live.”

It was so simple, such an obvious solution.

Laszlo was already looking up information on the Taxi and Limousine Commission, hunting down potential contacts and ways to narrow the search.

“What about Uber or Lyft?” John suggested, his initial excitement at the prospect of tracking down one particular taxi driver amongst the thousands that operated in the city. But Laszlo was already shaking his head.

“Too random. He needs to be able to watch, some freedom to choose for himself.”

“But he needs to be licensed, right? He’ll be on record?”

“Unless he’s driving illegally.” Laszlo, the eternal pessimist. “Sara will be able to run these checks more quickly.”

“But not right now.” It fell upon John to be the voice of reason once again. “It’s the middle of the night and we need some sleep. We can do this tomorrow, talk to Sara.”

“I can make a start tonight.” 

But the dark bruises beneath his eyes were all too pronounced in the stark light of the computer’s screen, his exhaustion evident in the way his usually dexterous one-handed typing faltered, and John just couldn’t stand by and watch him work himself into the ground.

He pushed the laptop shut, Laszlo just avoiding getting his fingers trapped, and stood firm as blazing eyes were turned on him, refusing to lose this battle.

“If you burn out you’ll be of no use to anyone.” For once, Laszlo would listen to John, and he forged on before Laszlo could open his mouth to protest. “You won’t find him tonight, on your own, so get some sleep and we’ll start again in the morning.”

Laszlo didn’t look happy with this plan. His fingers twitched as if itching to resume their search, but John didn’t waver and Laszlo’s shoulders eventually sagged in defeat.

“Okay.”

John lingered long enough to ensure Laszlo was getting himself settled on the couch, then, satisfied, retreated to the bedroom.

Unfortunately, it soon became clear he was going to be unable to heed his own advice. He spent a half hour tossing and turning, his own mind insisting on replaying moments from the evening, teasing him with the memory of Laszlo’s touch. He punched the pillow in frustration then froze when he heard a noise elsewhere in the apartment. He lay still, holding his breath, and then heard it again. Soft, but clearly audible in the still night.

Unless someone had broken in – which considering they were hunting a serial killer was a worrying possibility – there remained only one explanation; Laszlo must be having as much success as John himself was in his attempt to rest. Still slightly wary, John went to investigate.

Laszlo was sat on his erstwhile bed, iPad flickering its meager light on the cushion beside him, notebook perched on his knee. His hair was mussed, as if he’d run his fingers through it more than once, and it was painfully obvious he hadn’t managed a wink of sleep. Nor probably even tried.

“For Christ’s sake, Laszlo.”

“Hm?” He was slow to respond, only vaguely aware of John’s presence.

“It’s three in the morning!”

“Did I wake you? ’ _Tschuldigung_.”

There was something endearing about a sleepy Laszlo mixing his languages, but it was also another indication of just how tired he really was. It triggered an ache in John’s heart, raw and deeply etched.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He looked at John helplessly, a rare moment of candor. “There’s too much…” He waved his arm to encompass the notebook and tablet, the books and papers piled haphazardly around the small room, but John knew he wasn’t just referring to the work still waiting to be done. It was his mind that wouldn’t fall silent, thoughts and ideas crowding and chasing through that brilliant brain, keeping him awake.

Without giving himself a moment to think about the wisdom of what he was about to do, John took the pen from Laszlo’s hand, set the notebook aside, hooked him by the elbow and coaxed him to his feet. Quietly pliant, Laszlo let John steer him from the room only to hesitate when he realized where they were headed, eyes wide and confused.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll never get a decent sleep on that couch, and the bed is big enough for both of us.” John’s voice sounded remarkably calm, much to his own surprise. His stomach, meanwhile, was flipping wildly at the mere thought.

Laszlo stared at him for so long that John expected him to reject the idea out of hand, so it took a moment to process the small nod. Just an incline of the chin, really, but it was acquiescence.

Motioning for Laszlo to go ahead and get into bed, John shut off the lamp, allowing the darkness to fall around them and afford them some sense of privacy. It didn’t work, not entirely. John remained acutely aware of Laszlo’s presence as he slid under the covers, even though they remained at opposite sides of the mattress, a respectful distance between them.

“Good night, Laszlo.”

“Good night, John.” Laszlo’s response was soft, and maybe John imagined the smile he could hear behind the words. With that notion came the fear that he had doomed himself to a sleepless night, to hours of lying within arm’s reach of the man who had become so much more to him than a mere friend. So near, yet still so cruelly far.

But strangely, as he listened to the sound of Laszlo’s breathing settle into the gentle rhythm of sleep, the nervous tension left him, leaving him calmly content. Having Laszlo so close, so peaceful and untroubled, proved a comforting influence on his racing, yearning mind, and he soon felt sleep slipping over him, drawing him into its tranquil embrace.


	5. Chapter 5

“I’ve made coffee.”

Laszlo was already in place at the table, tapping away at his laptop, when John dragged himself out of bed, and had clearly been there long enough to have finished at least one mug of coffee. He didn’t let John’s appearance interrupt his work, and obviously had no intention of mentioning the previous night.

John, for his part, was unlikely to ever forget. The disappointment of waking up alone was countered by the memory of stirring in the early morning, of drifting up from sleep to find his legs entangled with Laszlo’s, a warm head of hair tucked beneath his chin.

They had unconsciously gravitated toward each other in their sleep; maybe it had only been for warmth, although John’s heart wished to believe otherwise.

The coffee indicated some degree of consideration, at least.

John poured himself a mug and refreshed Laszlo’s before joining him at the table.

“Did you sleep well?” An innocent enough question.

Laszlo looked up at him then, gaze searching John’s face. Despite his perfectly neutral expression, John had an inkling he too recalled their night-time embrace, and was trying to determine if John was aware. He finally broke the awkward stalemate with a brief nod and turned his attention back to the screen.

“Yes, thank you.”

Damn the man.

John scowled unhappily into his coffee, cursing Laszlo’s taciturn inscrutability and his own ridiculous feelings, until Sara’s welcome arrival dispelled a little of the tension.

He cheered even further when he saw she’d come bearing pastries.

John tore gratefully into the bag while Sara took in the small apartment they were currently calling home.

“This is cozy.” There was a glint in her eye as her gaze met John’s and he felt his ears heat. Was he really that obvious, or had she been honing her talent for mind reading?

“That’s one word for it,” he grumbled, busying himself with the food. He slid a pain au chocolat across to Laszlo and tried not to react to the way his face lit up.

Laszlo finally turned away from the computer, if only so as to avoid dropping flakes of pastry all over the keyboard. “It is adequate for our needs.”

John almost said something about Laszlo considering one bed _adequate_ , but stopped himself just in time. There was no need to make an even bigger fool of himself. Sara did her goddamn mind-reading trick anyway and sent him a pointed smirk as she took a seat between them and stole a corner of John’s croissant.

“So, are you going to enlighten me as to what all those late night messages were about?”

“Ah, yes!” Laszlo brushed his fingers free of crumbs and launched into an explanation of the theory he had been struck with last night. Sara listened attentively, and by the time Laszlo finished speaking she was nodding.

“Yes, that makes sense.” Her detective’s brain was clearly in agreement with Laszlo’s psychologist’s one. “But that leaves us with a hell of a lot of suspects.”

“I’m hoping I’ll soon be able to narrow the list down,” Laszlo said, as cryptic as ever. “But I thought you might begin making some inquiries.”

“I can try.” Sara, however, didn’t sound convinced of her chances. “But it’ll be difficult without anything to work with. A description would be helpful.”

“Yes. But as there are no living witnesses to this man’s crimes, nor any hint as to his physical appearance beyond him being strong enough to overpower two victims at once, we must do without for now.”

Sara nodded, a little disheartened but willing. “I’ll do what I can.” Then she smiled. “I should even be able to convince Marcus and Lucius to help. If that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Laszlo agreed immediately. The Isaacson brothers were two of the very few cops he trusted both for their assistance and their discretion.

“What about us?” John chipped in, feeling like his own part in this investigation had suddenly become redundant, and afraid Laszlo would have no further use for him

He needn’t have worried; Laszlo, as always, had a plan.

“Oh, our clubbing days are not over just yet, John.”

* * * *

Their next visit to the Pot Of Gold, however, was vastly different to those previous. They went to the bar as usual and ordered drinks, but instead of finding somewhere to sit and watch, Laszlo had them linger a while before he caught the eye of one of the barmen.

They stepped away and exchanged a few brief words, and then Laszlo was motioning for John to follow them through the door marked Staff Only at the end of the bar.

They were led along a corridor, past several doors that John assumed must conceal offices and staff quarters, and then out of a fire door into the alleyway beyond.

“Remember,” the barman said as he nudged into the doorway a brick that appeared to be there for the express purpose of keeping the door wedged open, “if anyone catches you out here, it had nothing to do with me.”

“Of course,” Laszlo assured him. “Thank you, Scott.”

Scott sketched a salute and ducked away to return to his post.

“What are we doing out here Laszlo?” There was a Dumpster and an assortment of smaller trash cans lined up along one wall, but judging from the number of cigarette butts scattered across the ground, the alley was also used by the employees as a place to grab a smoke. None of which seemed relevant to the investigation.

“We are here to observe.”

“Observe what? The rats?”

It was too dark to see Laszlo’s eyes clearly, but John guessed he was rolling them.

“Don’t be obtuse, John. Come on.”

Grumbling at being labelled stupid when it was Laszlo who was intent on keeping him in the dark, John nevertheless followed Laszlo along the alley and around a corner, finally reaching the mouth of another alley adjacent to the next building.

A hand on John’s chest prevented him stepping out into the street and pushed him back into the shadows. He looked to Laszlo with confusion, but when he followed Laszlo’s nod he realized what the plan was.

They had a perfect view of the road in front of the club, its approach from the next block, and they could see every passing vehicle without themselves being noticed. Laszlo produced a notebook and pen, and their vigil began.

It didn’t take long for John to grow bored. There was only so much he could contribute to the noting of license plate numbers, and he wished he’d thought to bring a drink with him. For lack of anything else to do, he pulled out a cigarette, only to have it plucked from his mouth before he could light up.

“We are trying not to call attention to our presence, John.” Another lecture from Laszlo. “The light might be seen.”

“Fine,” John grunted and leaned back against the wall to glower sullenly at Laszlo. The effect was somewhat diminished in the gloom. “Y’know, I’m starting to feel like a spare part.”

There was another reason for his crankiness, one he didn’t want to examine too closely. He was already missing their intimacy, fake though it had been.

“You still have your uses,” Laszlo assured him, attention still on the passing traffic.

“Oh, really?” John huffed, aware he sounded like a child but unable to shake his sour mood.

Long association had taught Laszlo it was best to ignore John at his most immature, so John had to grumble to himself for another two hours.

Finally, much to John’s relief, Laszlo decided he had collected enough data for the night and they wound their way back through the alley and into the club. Laszlo made sure to knock the brick aside and signalled Scott the barman on their way past the bar.

They left the club again, this time through the front door, and while John was ready to go get in one of the damn cabs he’d spent the best part of the night watching, Laszlo clearly had other ideas. Pulling John over to one side he took up a spot beside the wall of the club, just where the neon light cast a stark glare down on the sidewalk, and turned a smile on John.

“You may have that cigarette now.”

That wasn’t what John had been expecting. “Huh?”

“Please, go ahead.”

Still baffled, John dug the cigarette out and lit up. It felt good for a moment, to fill his lungs with the toxic smoke, let it soothe away the tension he’d been working on building up the past few hours.

The effect was somewhat negated by the feel of Laszlo’s gaze on him.

“You just gonna watch me?” he groused.

Instead of answering, Laszlo gestured at the cigarette. “May I?”

“I’ve got more if you want one.”

“I’d just like a drag.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sure, fine, why not?” He may as well just give in, make his life as easy as possible.

He passed over the cigarette and watched as Laszlo pursed his lips around its end and drew in a deep, leisurely breath, holding the smoke in his lungs as he handed it back. John couldn’t remember ever being quite so turned on by the sight of someone smoking. Placing the cigarette back between his own lips felt unexpectedly intimate.

He willed his body not to react, did his best to ignore Laszlo’s warm presence at his side, until he was done and they finally hailed a cab.

As soon as they were through the door, Laszlo was at the computer. No surprise there. About to announce his intention to go to bed, John was diverted by Laszlo directing him to take a seat and setting the laptop in front of him.

“You are faster at typing than I am,” Laszlo explained. “If you don’t mind?”

It wasn’t a question that expected an answer, not one in the negative anyway.

“Sure.”

And so John typed out the list of times and license plates as Laszlo read them from his notebook, marking those that had stopped or lingered near the club. There were a lot, and by the time they reached the end, John’s eyelids were drooping.

“If that’s all, I’m going to bed.”

“Hmm?” Laszlo was already scrolling through the numbers, hoping for some kind of revelation from the strings of numbers and letters. “Oh yes, go ahead.”

More than ready to hit the sack, something made John stop and look back at the man hunched over the laptop. His dedication was both admirable and frustrating, and John suddenly regretted acting like an asshole all night.

“You’re welcome to share again.” The words had slipped out before he’d even planned to speak. “If you like.”

Laszlo’s fingers stopped tapping for a second as he considered. John prepared for his offer to be brushed off, especially considering how they’d wound up last time, so was surprised by a nod.

“Thank you. I’ll be there shortly.”

It was, in fact, maybe half an hour later he heard Laszlo enter the bedroom, steps light so as not to disturb him. Feigning sleep, John listened in the dark as Laszlo slid into the other side of the bed and got comfortable, and only then was he finally able to drift off to sleep.

* * * *

John blinked, trying to get his bearings in the dark that still enveloped the room. A glance at his watch told him it was just past four in the morning, but couldn’t provide any hint as to what had awoken him.

It was then he remembered waking the night before, with Laszlo curled against him, and he was struck with the realization of what was missing.

Laszlo.

No doubt he’d slipped off to follow a notion he’d had, unable to wait for a more godly hour to continue his research. John considered leaving him to it, as it was always difficult to coax him away from his work when he was stuck deep into an investigative tangent.

But, even so, 4am was not the time for such heavy work, especially when they had already been up half the night.

Darkness greeted him in the living area, the absence of any glow from a lamp, the laptop, or tablet screen leaving him confused. The bathroom door stood ajar, lit only by the faint light falling through the window, confirmation that Laszlo wasn’t in there either.

There was no reason to be worried, but that didn’t stop a vague tickle of concern creeping in to join the confusion.

“Laszlo?”

A minute movement drew his attention to the couch, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he was finally able to make out a head of disheveled hair. Moving closer revealed Laszlo’s huddled form wedged into one corner.

“Laszlo? You okay?”

“Yes, John, I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

On this occasion, however, John wasn’t going to do as instructed. There was a tautness to Laszlo’s voice, the words clipped, bitten off. John knew Laszlo well enough to recognize his friend was in pain, far removed from his claim of _fine_.

Switching on a lamp, John joined him on the couch, taking in his hunched shoulders, the way he was cradling his right arm close, the fingers of his left hand digging into the atrophied muscles.

The sight didn’t shock John, for he had known Laszlo long enough to have seen him shirtless, rare though that was. Still, his heart gave a lurch of sympathy.

“You’re in pain.”

“How very observant of you,” Laszlo snapped, then almost instantly deflated, grimacing an apology. “It always tends to hurt worse at night. I’m afraid it makes me rather a poor bedfellow.” He gave John a humorless smile. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I don’t mind.” And that was the truth. John didn’t like to think of Laszlo suffering alone, wanted to do whatever he could to help ease his pain. “Can I help?”

“I was unaware that you are a qualified physical therapist.”

This was Laszlo at his most irascible, but John refused to rise to it.

“Laszlo,” he admonished gently, waiting patiently as Laszlo fought his own insecurities and embarrassment. He hated acknowledging his weaknesses, showing his vulnerabilities, but in the face of John’s steadfast presence, he relented.

“Okay.” He turned, twisting sideways on the couch so he was angled toward John, and John shifted a little closer, their knees pressing together. Gingerly, Laszlo held his arm out. “Just as if you were giving a massage.”

John’s hands engulfed the thin limb as he carefully began to knead.

“Harder,” Laszlo instructed through clenched teeth. “You’re not trying to tickle me.”

It was almost a joke, but John didn’t laugh. He pressed his thumbs more firmly into the withered flesh, only to stop again when Laszlo hissed in pain.

“Sorry.”

But Laszlo was shaking his head. “No, it’s fine. Like that.”

So John continued, Laszlo enduring his ministrations with his typical stoic tolerance, and it was heartbreaking to think he had become so accustomed to the pain that he rarely let it show.

He grew more assured, more certain in his movements, glancing at Laszlo’s face every now and again to ensure he wasn’t in too much discomfort. Laszlo had closed his eyes, placing unspoken trust in John, and there was something almost peaceful in the quiet, shared moment, lit by the soft glow of the lamp, with Laszlo’s hand resting warmly against his thigh.

John would have been happy to carry on all night, especially if he was succeeding in bringing some relief to Laszlo, but his fingers were eventually stilled by Laszlo placing his free hand over John’s.

“That’s enough.” He smiled and gave John’s hand a squeeze to signal his gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Any time, Laszlo. You know that.”

“I do.” Knowing that, however, wouldn’t make it any more likely he would ask for help, but an acknowledgement was a step in the right direction.

“Shall we go back to bed?”

Laszlo hesitated, and John guessed he had been planning on spending the remainder of the night on the couch. To dispel this ridiculous notion, John stood and pulled Laszlo along with him. “Come on.”

It took no more encouragement than that, and they settled back into bed, each on what was fast becoming his own side.

John had to fight the urge to pull Laszlo into a hug, the desire to hold him close, and fisted his hands in the sheets to prevent himself reaching out.

Laszlo had already allowed him past several of his carefully constructed walls; asking for anything more would only be selfish.

It was more than John had expected, and that was enough.

* * * *

The next few days followed much the same pattern. A seemingly endless cycle of watching taxis, noting them down, and getting some much needed sleep, punctuated by research and updates from Sara.

She and the Isaacsons had begun to compile a list of taxi drivers who had been on shift on the nights leading up to and including the murders.

It was a dishearteningly long list.

But they forged on, and Laszlo began to highlight patterns in his spreadsheet of the city’s taxicabs. That certain vehicles appeared on more than one night was not in itself particularly notable, as many drivers likely preferred certain routes – especially toward the end of their shifts – but the ones that passed and lingered several times in the same night warranted closer attention.

Laszlo created a list of those cabs and emailed it to Sara to check against the information she had gathered. Hopefully, this would help focus their search to the most likely suspects.

It took John an embarrassingly long time to catch on to what Laszlo was doing by having them loiter outside the club every night, pausing for a smoke before making their way home. He wanted to see if any driver paid special attention to the potential fare from the club.

John tried not to think about whether that made him bait once again.

It was Friday night when their routine was shattered, sent barrelling along an unexpected track by the ever-unpredictable Laszlo Kreizler.

It all followed much the same course at first – the visit to the club and taxi spotting from the shadows of the alleyway – and John was just as thrilled as ever when Laszlo announced their vigil was over for the night. The cigarette he lit up while Laszlo scanned to street in front of the club while simultaneously scrolling through his phone was more than welcome after the few hours spent in night air that was beginning to carry a slight chill.

Still, he’d be glad to finally get back to the apartment and fall into bed.

“John?”

John automatically offered Laszlo his half-smoked cigarette, assuming he was asking to share again. But Laszlo made no move to take it from his fingers.

It was John himself who was the focus of Laszlo’s intense gaze, those hawk’s eyes searching his face. For what, John couldn’t guess. He opened his mouth to ask what was up, but the words fled as Laszlo placed his palm to John’s chest, fingers splayed. He slid the hand up until his fingers met with bare skin where John’s shirt parted at his throat, all the while watching as intently as he had been the passing people and cars.

“Laszlo?”

His gaze flicked back up to meet John’s, but any attempt to read what he saw there was foiled by the hammering of his pulse, loud in his ears. His heart was racing beneath Laszlo’s palm, his body reacting to the heat in the dark stare fixed upon him, and it couldn’t really mean what his imagination was insisting it meant.

Could it?

Laszlo’s tongue darted out, just briefly, flickering across his lips, and John was still struggling to find a reasonable interpretation when Laszlo broke free from whatever spell was holding him in thrall. In one sudden, smooth movement, he slid his hand up and around the back of John’s neck, stepped closer, tilted his chin up, and kissed John soundly on the mouth.

For a few, stunned seconds John was frozen, unable to react in any way other than utter shock. His mind whirled; he had been denying himself this fantasy for so long that the reality didn’t quite seem _real_.

Then Laszlo faltered, drawing back a little at the lack of response, uncertain, and the fear of him retreating kicked John into action. He grasped at Laszlo’s waist, pulling him back against him, slotting their bodies together and tilting his head to kiss him properly. Laszlo sagged in relief, his fingers twisting into John’s hair as their tongues met with growing confidence, the soft scratch of his beard a glorious counterpoint.

John brought his hands up to cradle Laszlo’s face as he gentled the kiss into something calmer but no less passionate. He arched into Laszlo, pouring every ounce of the emotion he’d kept in check until now into every point of contact between them, feeling the responding clutch at his hip as if Laszlo felt the same desire to press as close as possible, to climb into his skin and reside there forever.

When they eventually parted, chests heaving as they gasped for air, John felt the loss as an ache in his chest. But that absence was eclipsed by the elation that manifested in a no doubt dopey grin. Laszlo smiled back, a blend of surprise, wonder, and bashful delight.

Laszlo finally looked away, out toward the street, then reluctantly disengaged himself from John’s embrace, regaining a little of his usual composure.

“Let’s go home.”

He grasped John by the hand and, still dazed, John let himself be tugged toward a waiting cab.

* * * *

As soon as they were inside, Laszlo was at his laptop, waiting impatiently for it to start up. John’s skin was aflame, blood pounding in his head, and it seemed inconceivable that Laszlo could remain so unaffected when his own heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest.

“Laszlo?”

“Hm?”

“Can we do that in the morning?”

“No, we need to do it now.” John didn’t even warrant a glance, the computer proving far more compelling. That stung. “There’s something I’d like to check.”

“Laszlo, please.” John considered shaking him, didn’t know how else to drag his attention away from the damn computer. Had he already forgotten their kiss? Did he consider it that insignificant? “Can we not just talk for a minute?”

Laszlo appeared not to hear him, his only reaction a small hum of success as he brought his spreadsheet of taxis up on screen. Flipping his notebook to the most recent entries, he finally looked up at John, expectant.

It was like a punch to the gut.

The happiness that had suffused his entire being only a short time ago vanished in a heartbeat, leaving him a hollow shell, cold and empty. It truly had meant nothing to Laszlo, the kiss just a part of their ruse, a strategy to draw a killer out of hiding.

“Type your own notes.” He forced the words out past the sudden constriction in his throat and they sounded as wretched as he felt.

Laszlo blinked, confused and entirely oblivious. “Sorry?”

John’s eyes burned hot and – _dammit_ – he was _not_ going to cry. He let anger rise instead, bright and ferocious, twisting his lips into a snarl.

“Fuck you, Laszlo.”

He needed to get out, get away, and he fled without daring to look back, the door slamming shut in his wake.


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you have any idea what time it is, John Moore?”

The answer was clearly no, if the way he stumbled past Sara and fell face first onto her couch was any indication.

She and John had been friends for so long she could barely remember a time he hadn’t been a part of her life. He was her brother in all but blood, and she loved him dearly, but when he turned up announced on her doorstep at three in the morning, raging drunk, she wondered how the hell she had put up with him all this time.

“What the fuck, John?” She knew she sounded pissed off, but thought that could be forgiven considering she had been rudely awoken in the middle of the night.

John mumbled something that was lost to the couch cushion.

“I know for a fact you currently have at least two beds you could quite comfortably go and sleep this off in.” Her words carried the implicit suggestion that John should go do just that and let her get back to her own bed and salvage what sleep she could.

John groaned, an unhappy kind of noise, and shifted enough to get a hand inside his jacket. Seeing what he pulled out, Sara lunged to snatch the bottle of brandy from his grasp. John made an attempt to get it back, but he lacked the coordination necessary for such a precision maneuver and Sara easily kept it safely out of reach of his blindly groping hand.

“I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?”

John moaned again but let his arm fall back down to hang uselessly over the edge of the couch. Sara placed the bottle out of harm’s way and crouched down, trying to catch John’s eye so she could give him the full force of her disapproving glare. What she saw, however, gave her pause. His eyes were red, but not just with the drink; he looked devastated, like he’d been fighting back tears, and her anger was instantly swept aside by a swell of concern.

“What’s happened?”

This time, John managed to form a coherent sentence, though not one that really explained anything. “I’m an idiot.”

“That’s a well-established fact,” Sara said, not unkindly, but her attempt to lighten the mood didn’t raise even a flicker of a smile.

“I know it was all fake,” John continued pitifully, slurring a little on the sibilants, “that the relationship wasn’t _real_. But then he kissed me and I thought…Christ, I’m an idiot for ever thinking he might…”

Sara was doing her best to puzzle out the cause of John’s distress from his meandering narrative, but on hearing that last piece of information her thoughts crashed to a halt.

“Laszlo kissed you?” She couldn’t quite get that to marry with John’s despair. For what felt like years now, she had had to suffer the longing looks sent between the two of them, silently despairing at how oblivious they were, and so surely this could only be a step in the right direction? “But that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?”

She didn’t think it possible for John to look any more forlorn, but he somehow managed it. “ _I_ thought so.” John’s face crumpled at the memory, at the rejection. “It obviously meant nothing to him.”

That didn’t make any sense to Sara. Laszlo kept his emotions well guarded, that was true, but that only made it less credible that he could have ever been so demonstrative without it meaning _something_.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

John snorted a short, humorless laugh. “All he cared about was making sure a madman would buy us as a couple. We kissed, then it was right back to the case like nothing ever happened.”

Sara watched as he teetered on the brink of tears, blinking rapidly several times and drawing in a shaky breath, and felt her earlier anger return with renewed force. Only now it had a new target.

Even if she had been well off the mark in her assumption Laszlo reciprocated John’s feelings, she couldn’t believe the man would ever act so callously toward his friend. He needed a lesson on how to act like a civilized human being, to be told he couldn’t ride roughshod over other people’s emotions just because he felt it pertinent to his research.

She reined that anger in, for now, her sympathy rising to the fore at the sight of her old friend’s crushed expression. “Oh, John.” She had never before seen him looking so dejected. A comforting hug clearly in order, she gently nudged him up enough to slide onto the couch beside him, only for him to instantly slump back down and lay his head in her lap. Any other time she would have rolled her eyes and teased him for being such an overgrown child, but at that moment she only wanted to console him, to somehow lessen his hurt.

She brushed a hand through his hair, soothing, whilst silently fuming on his behalf. John’s breath hitched a couple of times, but he must have found some measure of solace in Sara’s quiet, compassionate presence for it wasn’t long before he sank into a miserable yet calmer sleep.

Carefully extracting herself, she fetched a blanket and a glass of water to leave nearby, and left him to sleep it off.

But while the hangover would fade soon enough, his wounded heart would not be healed so easily.

* * * *

“How dare you do that to him, you unfeeling son of a bitch!”

Laszlo’s eyes widened in shock and he took a step back as Sara jabbed him in the chest, hard.

“Excuse me?”

Sara let her fury carry her into the apartment, causing Laszlo to almost fall over a pile of precariously stacked books as he was forced to back off further.

“You’re supposed to be his friend! What gives you the right to screw with his feelings like that?”

Laszlo frowned, struggling to make sense of Sara’s tirade of accusations even as he fought to keep his footing.

“John?”

“Of course John! Unless there’s anyone else whose heart you’ve crushed recently?”

Laszlo still looked completely lost, eyes that were usually so quick and clever now clouded with incomprehension. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s pretty fucking simple, Laszlo.” Surely he couldn’t be _that_ oblivious? “You can’t just kiss someone then toss them aside! If you don’t like him that way, that’s fine. Just don’t fuck around with his feelings, you heartless bastard.”

Laszlo frowned at that, brow furrowing in confusion, suddenly deaf to Sara’s angry attack as he processed the information.

“But John doesn’t…he doesn’t have those sort of feelings for me.”

“Are you blind? He’s in love with you, you idiot!”

“What?” Sara may as well have slapped him he looked so stricken, rocking back on his heels as if her words were a physical force. “I…” He stammered for a moment, uncharacteristically lost for words, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “I had no idea.”

“I’m not buying that, Kreizler. He all but telegraphs it every time he looks at you. He may as well he wearing a bloody sign!”

“Sara, I…” He finally met her gaze, beseeching, willing her to believe him. “I _didn’t know_.”

Sara threw up her hands in dismay, starting to regret ever having gotten involved in this madness. Hunting a killer was infinitely less stressful. “Christ, Laszlo, for a psychologist you can be pretty fucking dense sometimes.”

To his credit, Laszlo didn’t try to deny her assertion, only tapped the knuckles of his good hand against his lips as his mind pieced together the evidence. Sara waited him out, watching as it all slowly slotted into place, until he reached the inevitable conclusion. But even having made some kind of sense out of it all, there was clearly something still puzzling him.

“But why?” he asked simply.

Sara gave a harsh laugh. “Damned if I know, not if this is how you’ve been treating him all these years. He _must_ love you to put up with all your shit.”

Laszlo sank heavily into a chair, and he at least had the decency to look chastened. He rubbed at his beard with two fingers and it was rare to see him so discomposed. He seemed so genuinely astounded that Sara found herself softening. Just a little. There was, she reasoned, every chance that, accustomed as he was to keeping his own feelings closely guarded, Laszlo had just honestly never considered this possibility. And John, hopeless cause that he was, had never considered actually _saying_ anything, of course.

She released the worst of her anger on a despairing sigh. Who needed children when one had a pair of useless idiots to supervise?

“Look, Laszlo,” she said, more kindly than she had spoken to him before. “First and foremost you are friends, so just make sure you fix it. You owe him that much.”

She was glad to see him nod even with his mind clearly still racing along newly revealed paths. Judging by his expression, the way was not yet completely free of obstacles, and his next words laid bare one of those hurdles.

“I’m not an easy man to love.”

Sara couldn’t help but laugh at that, an undignified snort. When Laszlo looked up to see what was so funny, she arched a brow, unrepentant. “Don’t you think he knows that?”

Laszlo’s lips parted, a no doubt indignant retort poised on his tongue, but what emerged instead was a chuckle, small and self-deprecating. But even acknowledging that fact didn’t provide him a solution to his predicament, and Sara took pity on him. For all his genius, he was still hopeless at negotiating even basic human interaction.

Sitting down beside him, she gave his knee a fortifying squeeze. “Talk to him,” she advised. It was so simple; if they would only communicate, they could get this mess straightened out. “I thought you psychologists are supposed to be into all that.”

Laszlo smiled at that, just a little. “They say doctors make the worst patients. I think the same holds true for psychologists.”

“But you’ll do it.” It wasn’t a question, more a thinly veiled threat paired with a pointed glare that Sara didn’t lift until Laszlo gave her a nod and a promise.

“I will.”

* * * *

John woke, and instantly regretted it. Whilst he had slept, a herd of elephants had apparently stampeded through his skull, leaving it throbbing nauseatingly. His stomach, not wanting to feel left out, added its own accompaniment, roiling like a rowboat on storm-tossed waves.

Groaning pitifully, he rolled over, almost pitched himself off the edge of the couch he was sprawled across, and promptly decided that remaining still and horizontal was a good life choice.

Eyes tightly shut against the impertinently bright sunlight, John resolved to lie there and wallow in his self-inflicted agony for a few hours, make a no doubt short-lived resolution to never even look at alcohol again, and wait until he felt vaguely more human before daring to face the world. Unfortunately, through the swirling fog in his mind, threads of memory began to coalesce, solidify, and John instantly wished for the return of blessed oblivion as the pain in his heart eclipsed that of the hangover.

Crushing despair and rejection hit him anew, more potent than the nausea, more devastating. It settled like a knot in his chest, tight and impossible to unravel, but it was the loss of hope that hurt most of all.

While he would have gladly remained right where he was, lost in his misery, Sara’s couch had unfortunately not been designed with the intention of serving as a bed for someone with his build. Uncomfortably cramped, his muscles added to the protest, and he finally levered himself upright.

Spotting the glass of water, a packet of painkillers propped knowingly beside it, John sent up a mental prayer of thanks to Sara, swallowed down a couple of the pills, and dragged himself to the bathroom to pee.

As he rinsed his hands, he made the grave error of catching sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection didn’t make for a pretty sight: Eyes red-rimmed and sunken in a haggard face, skin still creased from the couch cushion he’d used as a pillow, hair sticking up every which way.

He looked a mess, which matched perfectly the turmoil he felt inside, and while Sara had left before he’d awoken, he could still hear her dismayed reprimand in his head.

For fuck’s sake, John. Pull yourself together.

He didn’t think she’d begrudge him the use of her shower, so he stripped off his rumpled clothes and stepped under the spray. A quick blast of freezing water to shock him back to life, then he cranked up the heat until he started to feel a little less like the living dead. Unfortunately, as he stood beneath the pounding spray, his mind was free to wander, to replay the previous evening and its rollercoaster ride of soaring high followed by crashing low.

Strangely, his anger toward Laszlo had diminished, was no longer a brightly burning fire but instead a guttering flame. As was typical, he just couldn’t stay mad at him for long. Maybe that was a consequence of his crush, but he couldn’t fault Laszlo for being so absorbed in his efforts to prevent a killer claiming any more victims that he was blind to the more trivial feelings of his friends. And, as much as it hurt John to admit it to himself, perhaps Laszlo just wasn’t harboring a similar attraction.

Understandable, really. For what did John have to offer him?

Leaning his forehead against the damp tiles, he let the water run over his shoulders and down his back, cursing himself for being such a pathetic fool, for thinking it could all be real, for agreeing to this ridiculous charade that had given him a taste of what could have been.

Damn it all.

With a snarl, John wrenched off the spray and left the shower before he could grow too maudlin. He towelled himself dry, lamented the lack of fresh clothes to change into, then busied himself making sure the bathroom was left in a presentable state. It wasn’t only with regard to it being Sara’s apartment, but a way of keeping his mind from dwelling on other things.

Next on the agenda was coffee. Thankfully, Sara kept her kitchen well stocked with the essentials and he soon had some on the go. But his fresh determination was almost derailed by the sight of the bottles of wine resting in their rack on the counter. There were only a few, for Sara typically favored whisky or gin, but their presence felt like a serendipitous godsend.

John turned away before temptation could take hold, steadfastly ignoring the itch of need crawling just beneath his skin.

Taking his coffee, he returned to the couch and switched the television on to a crappy daytime show, background noise to drown out his thoughts. There was probably a limit on how long he could sit slumped on Sara’s couch feeling sorry for himself before he wore out his welcome, but he decided he hadn’t quite reached it yet.

It was the craving for a smoke that crept up on him next. He knew there was still half a pack in his jacket pocket, but even the thought of lighting up sent him straight back to the club, standing outside sharing a cigarette with Laszlo, that familiar profile softened in the haze of smoke as he exhaled.

Fuck.

He scrubbed a hand over his face in an attempt to dispel the image. Unsurprisingly, didn’t work. Laszlo was just too well embedded in his mind, conscious or otherwise. He’d never minded before, but now it served only to taunt him.

For want of anything more effective, he refilled his coffee and put renewed effort into finding something on TV that would hold his attention. He was trying to get interested in some kind of sports round-up when Sara returned.

She didn’t seem surprised to find John still there, and was barely in the door before she was casting an assessing glance over him. He knew he must still look a disheveled mess even after the shower

“You’re looking a little better,” she eventually decided, reasoning that now was not the time for a harsher judgment.

“That’ll be the coffee.” That he still _felt_ like shit went without saying, was obvious from the very fact he was still hiding away in Sara’s apartment, and Sara offered him a sympathetic smile.

“Have you heard from him?”

John gave a shrug that wasn’t quite as nonchalant as he’d hoped. “I haven’t checked my phone.” He hadn’t dared, coward that he was.

“Maybe you should?” The arched brows and pointed stare made it less a suggestion, more a very strong hint.

With little enthusiasm, John sought out his cell and checked his messages. A part of him hoped that Laszlo hadn’t sent him anything, that he wouldn’t have to face up to his stupid outburst, his ridiculous crush. But there was Laszlo’s name, and John’s heart gave an unbidden leap.

_I’ll be home this evening. Please come. L._

Brief and to the point, but messages from Laszlo usually were. What struck John, lit a tiny flame of hope, was that one word. _Home_. If Laszlo still thought of that cramped little rented apartment as their home, temporary and functional as it may be, then perhaps he really did want to salvage their friendship from the crater they’d left last night.

Sara was hovering, expectant.

“He wants to meet tonight.”

“That’s good. Let him explain, and I’m sure the two of you can work this out.”

She was right, of course, because hadn’t he already forgiven Laszlo? And John would rather retain his friendship without the chance of anything more than lose him altogether.

Sara could clearly read that resolve in his face, for she sat down beside him and took his hand, and if she was trying to tell him something, John was at a loss as to what it could be.

“Just wait. Hear him out.”

Good advice, but the waiting part was easier said than done. He remained restless with an unsettling mix of dread and anticipation, and when he remembered what was keeping Laszlo busy that day, his mood dipped once again. He should be there, helping, as Laszlo met with the Isaacsons to go over their research and discuss the killer’s profile. There was little chance his absence would be mourned, however, since there wasn’t much he could contribute to such a discussion. Neither a detective nor a psychologist, he was the most expendable member of the team.

No wonder Laszlo didn’t consider him a worthy partner.

Intuitive as she was, Sara spotted his melancholy creeping back and bumped his shoulder with her own, jostling him out of its path before it could drag him back down into another slump.

“Come on. Let’s go get you some fresh clothes, then I’m taking you out for dinner.”

Just as she’d known it would, the promise of food cheered John a little.

* * * *

Sara had done her best to distract him for the rest of the day, then, as the sun began to set and evening slowly descended, she started to coax him out the door.

It was possible she just wanted him out of her hair, but she insisted it was high time he went and spoke with Laszlo, and her farewell was encouraging but laced with a warning that the two of them had damn well better sort their shit out.

Only a fool ignored a threat issued by Sara Howard.

And so it was with nervous determination that John returned to the place he’d called home the past week. Even in that relatively short span of time, he and Laszlo had fallen into a comfortable routine, and even sharing the bed had begun to feel like a perfectly normal state of affairs. Perhaps that wasn’t so surprising considering how long he and Laszlo had been friends, and it gave him some hope that they could find a way back to that.

He just had to get a hold on his schoolboy infatuation.

There was no putting it off any longer. At the door to the basement flat, he steeled himself – now or never – only to hesitate a moment as he debated whether to announce his arrival or go ahead and let himself in. He thought it right to give Laszlo some warning, to prepare for what lay ahead, and had his finger poised to press the doorbell, only to pause again.

A sound inside the apartment: A clatter-crash followed by a dull thud. Something hitting the floor? John’s first thought was that Laszlo must have knocked something over – the lamp or one of the many stacks of books he’d managed to amass. But then, a split-second later, came another noise, this time distinctly human in origin – a muffled cry, raw-edged with pain, in a voice so familiar it made the blood turn to ice in his veins.

 _Laszlo_.


	7. Chapter 7

John’s heart was in his mouth as he fumbled open the door, numb fingers almost dropping the key, a thousand possible scenarios running through his mind, each more horrifying than the last.

But the sight that greeted him as he finally, _finally_ , burst into the apartment was infinitely more terrible than any of them.

Laszlo, lying prone on the ground, pinned in place by the bulky figure crouched over him, bad arm wrenched painfully up above his head, a knife held just below his left eye.

John’s heart stuttered to a halt.

“Ah, here’s your pretty boyfriend.” A smirk full of teeth and malevolence turned upon John. “Just in time for the fun.”

“No!” Laszlo twisted his neck, trying to see John, the fear raw in his voice. Fear not for himself, but for John. The movement caused the tip of the blade to dig into the flesh of his cheek, a small bead of blood welling up. “John, go!”

That wasn’t an option. Fight and flight battled for a brief moment, a sickening choice between self-preservation and selfless bravery, but there could only ever be one conclusion. John knew he could rightly be labeled a coward for many reasons, but seeing Laszlo in danger triggered a protective instinct so strong it overrode his fear.

John threw himself at the stranger, driven purely by the need to get him away from Laszlo, to eliminate the threat to his friend’s life. His momentum as he barreled into the man was enough to make him release his grip, to carry them both into a graceless heap on the floor.

The relief that Laszlo was free was swiftly replaced by a new fear as John as his opponent struggled to gain the upper hand. Did he still have the knife, or had he dropped it? The man was big, strong, but adrenaline brought out the brawler in John and he battled to retain his advantage, feeling a sickening crunch as his elbow collided with nasal cartilage more through luck than skill.

Any hope that the blow might have subdued the man was quickly extinguished as he surged up with a snarl of anger, throwing John from him and pouncing before he had chance to recover. A fist to John’s jaw snapped his teeth together and sent a shock through his skull, but there was no sting of a blade to follow it up and perhaps he had dropped it after all.

John only had a split second to be grateful for that small mercy before the guy was back on him, a heavy weight across his chest trapping him in place. John struggled, but one of his arms was caught under a knee, the other batted away as thick fingers wrapped around his throat. Renewed panic flooded his veins, and John groped desperately for purchase, to land a hit, claw at the darkly glittering eyes, one foot striking the solid frame of the couch as he tried to buck up. But his limbs were growing steadily heavier as the fingers squeezed tighter, his lungs burning as he gasped vainly for air.

The evil grin returned, gruesome now with the blood that flowed from his busted nose, pleased at having rendered John powerless.

“Fucking fag.” The words were spat into John’s face, full of hatred and disgust. “Living in sin, flaunting your sick proclivities for the world to see. Shouldn’t be allowed to _live_!” The final statement was punctuated with another squeeze, and John’s vision swam, began to darken at the edges, and all he could think as his mind grew cloudy was how much he regretted his angry outburst, how he wished he had been brave enough to tell Laszlo he loved him and that it didn’t matter if he didn’t reciprocate.

And then all of a sudden the pressure around his throat vanished. He could breathe again, the weight gone from his chest, and he drew in desperate lungfuls of air. There was a hand on his shoulder, a gentle pressure, not holding him down this time but drawing him up, a lifeline to cling to.

Blinking rapidly, John’s eyes slowly refocused, Laszlo’s face swimming into view. A welcome, beautiful sight, despite the smudge of blood beneath his eye. He helped John to sit up, his touch gentle, gaze full of concern.

“John?”

A nod was all he could manage, his throat still raw, but he mustered something of a smile too, a signal he was okay. Relief softened the grim line of Laszlo’s mouth, but the tension didn’t completely leave him, and a moment later John realized why. The man that had attacked them lay motionless a few feet away, harmless now, the knife he had been wielding protruding from between his ribs.

“Is he…” John’s voice was a croak.

“Dead? Yes.” It was only natural that Laszlo would be shaken; he had just taken a man’s life. There was a measure of regret there too, not for having saved John’s life, but for having eliminated his best chance at understanding what had motivated these crimes.

“Laszlo?” It was barely a whisper, but Laszlo heard, turned his attention back to John. “Thank you.” It didn’t seem enough, not when Laszlo had gone against his every instinct to preserve life, to cure rather than condemn, but the full extent of his gratitude must have been clear in his expression, for Laszlo dipped his chin in a nod of acknowledgement.

His breathing gradually returning to something like normal, his pulse following suit if a little more slowly, John gingerly probed his throat, his jaw, checking for damage. A bit of bruising seemed to be the extent of it, and all in all he felt he’d gotten off pretty lightly.

They both had.

Laszlo was still on the floor, a short distance away, sat back on his heels as if all the energy had drained from him. John was about to say they ought to call the police, call Sara, but something in Laszlo’s rigid posture made him pause. He was holding his right arm close to his body, stiff and awkward and obviously still aching from being roughly twisted, but more immediately concerning was the darker patch blooming low down on the left side of Laszlo’s shirt. The fabric was black, the dark color typical of Laszlo’s wardrobe, and so it hadn’t been obvious, hadn’t stood out.

John’s heart missed a beat.

“Is that blood?”

“Hm?” Laszlo looked down at his stomach, brow furrowed as he inspected the tacky patch on his shirt, as if he hadn’t noticed it until now. He touched his fingertips to it, and they came away damp, stained crimson. John felt a fresh wave of fear crash over him.

“Please tell me it’s his.”

Laszlo’s silence gave John his answer.

Ignoring the protests of his aching body, John scrambled across to Laszlo, peeling up his shirt as gently as his shaking hands would allow. At first all he could see was blood, smeared across the pale skin, then he realized it was oozing freely from a cut. A knife wound. But not a superficial slash like the smaller gash on his cheek.

Deep.

“Christ, Laszlo.” Panic returned, cold fire licking up his spine. “You’ve been stabbed!”

Laszlo grimaced, looking absurdly apologetic, as if he hated lumbering John with such an inconvenience, at having been foolish enough to let it happen. “I thought it was you at the door.”

Forcing himself out of his stupor, John pressed his hand to the wound, trying to keep it closed, stop the flow of blood.

“You need to find something to…” Laszlo looked around at the mess that had been their living room, eyes dark in his pale face, and John wished their positions were reversed. Not only because Laszlo was the one with the medical degree, but because he couldn’t bear to see him hurt, didn’t trust himself to do this right. “A towel or something.”

“Yeah.” But John didn’t move, too afraid to remove his hand, leave Laszlo’s side.

“John.” How did he sound so calm when John felt like he was vibrating beneath his skin, fear bubbling up to the surface? “ _John_.” His eyes found John’s, his steady gaze having the calming effect he knew it would. He replaced John’s hand with his own, and John finally stumbled to his feet.

On his way to fetch a clean towel, John yanked his phone from his pocket. Somehow, miraculously, it had survived the scuffle undamaged, and by the time he crashed back down beside Laszlo, he had breathlessly conveyed all the details to the incongruously soothing voice of an emergency operator.

“Here, let me…” He pressed the towel over the wound, watched as it began to turn red at an alarming rate. He felt chilled, knew it was the fear and tried to tamp it down. He wasn’t entirely successful, couldn’t be when his best friend – the man he loved – was bleeding out in his arms.

Laszlo leaned back against his chest, letting John support his weight, and he suddenly seemed so much smaller, more vulnerable, than he ever had before.

“I'm so sorry.” John brushed a stray lock of hair from Laszlo’s forehead, the skin cold and clammy beneath his fingers. How could he have been so thoughtless, so selfish? Putting his own wounded pride before Laszlo’s safety. “I should never have left you here alone.”

Laszlo frowned at him, as if he was talking nonsense. “It’s not your fault. It is me who owes _you_ the apology.”

“Tell me later.”

Laszlo shook his head, as stubborn as ever even as he began to tremble, shock setting in. “It was never my intention to hurt you. I didn’t…” He drew in a shaky breath, took a moment to untangle his thoughts. “I had no idea you felt the same way.”

It took a second for that to sink in, to work its way past the dread and its meaning unfurl in John’s racing mind. “What?”

Laszlo raised his hand to John’s face, brushed his fingertips gently – _reverently_ – across the swell of his cheek before cupping his jaw in his palm, umber eyes fixed on John’s, commanding his full attention for his next words. And, weak as they were, there was no mistaking the strength of the affection behind them.

“I love you, John.”

Despite everything, John felt himself smiling. The circumstances could have been better, but to know his feelings were requited was more than he had dared hope for. He had to blink to clear the mist from his vision, letting the tears fall freely and unchecked, not giving a damn if Laszlo thought him the world’s biggest sap. “I love you too, you infuriating bastard.”

A chuckle turned into a grimace, and Laszlo’s hand dropped away, his eyes disappearing behind drooping lids. John’s heart stopped for the brief moment it took for them to flutter back open, for Laszlo to slowly meet his gaze again. The smile he managed was fragile, barely there, tinged with melancholic apology.

“ _Tut mir sehr leid_.”

John, to his shame, knew very little German, but that he understood all too well, refused to think of it as anything more than contrition for treating John’s feelings so poorly.

“I’ll forgive you everything,” he insisted, the words thick in his throat, willing Laszlo to cling to that vow, praying that he would get the chance to fulfil it. “Just so long as you don’t die.”

Laszlo gave no reply, could make no promise, but the tiny smile that curved at the corner of his mouth was his silent pledge to try. He laid his head on John’s shoulder, the fingers of his good hand twisting into John’s shirt as tightly as he could manage, and John clutched him closer as he lost his battle with consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Laszlo looked up in surprise as John burst in, fuming with incredulous fury made all the more potent by the fear that hadn’t fully dissipated since the moment he’d seen that vicious wound in Laszlo’s stomach.

Laszlo, for his part, appeared completely unaware of the source of John’s angry demand. He tipped his head in a question, brows furrowed in confusion.

John threw his hands up in despair. “You should still be in hospital!”

He finally caught on, but merely gave a dismissive shrug, as if the concern was entirely groundless. “I’m fine, John.”

He looked _comfortable_ , John grudgingly conceded, sat propped against one arm of his couch, legs stretched out along its length and iPad propped in his lap. But he was still pale, dark smudges beneath his eyes, right arm held stiff and tucked close to his body.

John knew Laszlo well enough to know he’d never let anything slow him down, not even a life threatening injury. Which was why the fool needed his friends to look out for him.

Speaking of which. “And you!” John turned to jab an accusatory finger at Stevie, who was making a concerted effort to blend into the wall. “You shouldn’t be encouraging this madness.”

“I, uh…” Stevie blinked at John, a rabbit in headlights, then glanced over at Laszlo in search of help.

“It’s not his fault, John,” Laszlo said, placating. “He was only doing as I asked.”

“He should know better than to do every insane thing you ask of him.”

“There is nothing _insane_ about me wanting to come home.” Laszlo used the same disdainful emphasis on the word he always did, but John wasn’t going to be diverted by a discussion on psychology.

“You were _stabbed_!” Maybe it was easy for Laszlo to forget that minor detail, but the sight of all that blood, the feel of Laszlo fading in his arms…that was something that would haunt John’s dreams for a long time to come.

“And I can recover just as well here as in a hospital bed.”

Sensing that he was going to be caught up in the crossfire, Stevie edged toward the door, lifting his wrist to check the watch he belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing.

“I gotta go,” he announced, slipping past John. “I have a…thing.”

John shot him a parting glare as he disappeared through the door, vowing to reprimand him later for indulging Laszlo’s more ridiculous whims. But for now, he had more important concerns.

John continued his argument, not unreasonably. “You need medical care, Laszlo.”

“Which I have received. Now I just need to rest, which I prefer to do here, in my own home.”

A part of John could understand that. No one liked hospitals, and between Stevie and Cyrus there would always be someone nearby if Laszlo needed assistance. Still, he wasn’t going to be easily appeased.

“Then you need to promise not to move from that spot for at least a week.”

Laszlo looked like he was about to argue further, brush aside what he clearly felt were ridiculous concerns, but something stopped him. Maybe he’d finally recognized the fear that still lingered in John's chest, like a weight against his ribs, or the memories that still haunted his mind, a shadow behind his eyes.

He softened, the defensive barrier crumbling just a little. He didn’t have to prove anything to John, and they’d already wasted too much time fighting. Dipping his chin in a nod, he finally capitulated.

The tension that had been lying heavy across John’s shoulders finally began to lift, and he was so relieved that he almost missed the glimmer of mischief that flickered suddenly behind Laszlo’s eyes.

“Are you planning to stay and watch me every minute, make sure I stay put?”

“Yeah,” John replied without hesitation. “If I have to.”

“Hm.” It was a contemplative noise, Laszlo’s assessing gaze still fixed on John, serious now. His expression might have been inscrutable to anyone else, but John could almost see the cogs whirling in his mind, hear the question he didn’t voice – didn’t _dare_ voice.

John was willing to take that chance, the echo of Laszlo’s words in his head making him bold.

_I love you, John._

“Would you like me to?” John hadn’t quite shaken the fear of rejection, and it made him feel like a nervous teenager asking his crush on a date. “Stay, I mean.”

He wasn’t offering to become a nursemaid, nor questioning Cyrus and Stevie’s capability to look out for Laszlo – although he’d likely be justified in doubting Laszlo’s ability to look after _himself_. It was more than that; he _wanted_ to be here, by Laszlo’s side, where he’d always belonged, where he wanted to _stay_.

He tried not to hope, for Laszlo had always been so fiercely independent, but he saw the faint blush rise to his cheeks and had his answer even before Laszlo spoke.

“Yes.” Such a simple word that conveyed so much meaning when spoken in Laszlo’s soft, musical accent. “I would.”

John could hear the echo of his own want, recognized the caution with which Laszlo stepped forward to meet him on this new, uncharted ground, tentative as he reached out for the thing they had both denied for so long.

John met him halfway.

The grin spreading wide and happy across his face, he went to Laszlo, bent to press a kiss to the crown of his head. Eyes sparkling, lips quirked up in a smile, Laszlo raised his chin in search of a proper kiss, and John gladly obliged, ducking his head to meet Laszlo’s lips.

It wasn’t, technically, their first, but it felt like it. What began as a light brush of lips quickly became something more, something deeper, and John poured everything he had into the kiss, his heart swelling in his chest until he felt he might burst.

One hand braced against the arm of the couch, the other found Laszlo, smoothing over the curve of a shoulder and up to his softly bristled jaw, blunt fingernails scratching lightly through his beard as lips parted and tongues clashed. Laszlo’s hand snaked up around the back of John’s neck, firm grip both holding John in place and acting as leverage as he pushed up, seeking more.

It was John who pulled back, parting reluctantly, only far enough to break the kiss. If they didn’t stop, Laszlo was in danger of popping a stitch and reopening his wound, and John was willing to wait if it meant Laszlo remaining in one piece. Laszlo, on the other hand, obviously hadn’t given his own wellbeing a second thought, and frowned up at John, his confusion laced with a hint of fear, worried he had already overstepped some unknown boundary.

“You should be resting,” John explained, brushing the pad of his thumb across Laszlo’s cheek, soothing away his anxiety. But the frown remained stubbornly in place, fueled now by frustration. John bent back down, pressed another kiss to Laszlo’s mouth, quick and firm, a promise there would be more, and Laszlo released his hold, unhappy but convinced.

“Does it hurt?” John asked, watching Laszlo resettle himself.

“No.” The reply came too quickly, and John raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. A brief staring contest ensued, one that John was determined not to back down from. He had spent far too long letting Laszlo push him away; it wasn’t going to happen ever again.

“A little,” Laszlo finally conceded, and allowing his vulnerabilities to show was a rare thing, meant just as much to John as their kiss had. Proof Laszlo felt able to let his guard down, to let John in. “Not unbearably so.”

As accustomed to living with pain as Laszlo was, John guessed he was downplaying it, but it was an admission nonetheless, and an expression of the trust Laszlo was placing in John. Just as he had that night with his arm. It was a trust John vowed never to betray, and he would do everything in his power to ensure Laszlo didn’t suffer unduly. But Laszlo’s acknowledgment of the pain also triggered an unexpected wave of reassurance; the profound relief that he was alive to feel that pain, to grumble about John’s mother henning.

It was rare for Laszlo to initiate or seek physical contact, but when John perched on the arm of the couch behind him – driven by an overwhelming desire to be close – Laszlo responded immediately by leaning into him, resting back against John’s thigh. Perhaps he wanted to feel it too, the warmth of life, for nor did he mind when John rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze with his own good hand and sharing the moment of quiet solace.

It wasn’t long, however, before Laszlo’s mind dashed off along another path, and although he didn’t move an inch from John, he had clearly returned to thinking about myriad other things. John didn’t mind; it was a sign he was still himself, still the infuriatingly brilliant, driven man he had always been.

Laszlo rescued his iPad from where it had slipped to the back of the couch and brought the screen back to life. One brief, curious glance was enough to tell John what Laszlo had been reading, and his stomach dropped.

Sara had sent Laszlo as much information about the deceased murderer as she was able, and Laszlo’s own investigations had provided him with a few more tidbits to sort through. He had clearly been eagerly devouring it all, but just the thought of revisiting the case left John feeling cold.

“Must you read that now?”

Laszlo paused, his hand hovering above the words he had been slowly scrolling. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost apologetic.

“I need to understand.”

He would never just be able to let it lie, happy that the man had been caught and stopped, John knew that. He needed to unravel the mystery that was the killer’s mind, puzzle out the reasons for his actions, the context that had led him to take the lives of innocent strangers. The very idea of delving into this madman’s head sent a shiver down John’s spine, conjured the memory of that evil grin beaming at him in triumph as Laszlo lay helpless on the floor, those cold eyes glaring down at him with vile hatred as he fought for breath, the blood that seeped from Laszlo, staining his hands as the light in those warm brown eyes dimmed.

“I know.” His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears. He understood, could even recognize how important it could prove in preventing such an atrocity ever happening again, but he didn’t have to like it. Forcing the images from his mind, he concentrated on the gentle rise and fall of Laszlo’s breathing beneath his hand, letting that vitality push the ghosts back until he felt steady again, certain that life would return to normal. Or as close to normal as life with Laszlo allowed.

“Perhaps you would make us some coffee.” Maybe Laszlo sensed his unease in the way he had tensed and was offering him something to distract him from the memories, or maybe he just wanted some coffee and was taking full advantage of having John present and willing to wait on him. Either way, John was happy to comply.

He let his fingers linger as he rose, reluctant to stray too far, but he was soon busy with the familiar motions of preparing the coffee. He could see Laszlo from the kitchen, frowning down at the iPad, already lost in thought. Laszlo liked to talk through problems aloud and John normally wouldn’t hesitate to be his sounding board, but this case left him reluctant, afraid to relive that horrifying attack or look too deeply at the possible reasons behind it. Unfortunately, avoiding it wouldn’t banish the memories, stop those same horrifying moments replaying in his nightmares, but perhaps humanizing the demon would diminish their power, provide a context that would give him some measure of closure.

“So,” John started, before he could chicken out. “What do we know?”

Laszlo raised his head from his notes, looking over his shoulder to John with obvious surprise, trying to gauge if his interest was genuine, if he truly wished to know. But nothing could be worse than what they had just experienced, what they had _survived_ , so he defiantly held Laszlo’s gaze until he was convinced.

“Graham Masters,” Laszlo began, and the way he naturally fell into his role as objective psychologist was somehow comforting. “Thirty-two, and he was indeed a taxi driver. One of those on the shortlist I compiled with the Isaacsons, in fact.” A little frustration crept back into his voice, still infuriated that he had been denied the chance to work on the case from the beginning, had lost so much time. “His parents separated when he was eleven, his father reportedly leaving the family to live instead with another man following a string of affairs.”

“With men?” John asked, although he could predict the answer.

“Yes.”

“I guess that explains his choice of victim.”

Laszlo nodded, deep in thought. “To some extent.”

John could tell he thought there was more to it than a simple desire to punish an absent father for desertion, and he found himself in agreement.

“Lots of kids come from broken families,” he mused. “They don’t all turn into serial killers.”

“No. There has to be something that prompted such a response.” Laszlo was now musing aloud, animated, his brilliant mind racing. “Perhaps some kind of pathology, although that will now be difficult to determine. If only I could speak with him! The police are still gathering statements from his mother and the people who knew him, but I hope to get some time with them myself. Especially his mother – and father, when Sara tracks him down – as there must be something in his past, his childhood, that explains such an extreme reaction, the formation of this mission he was compelled to undertake.”

John didn’t pretend to understand psychology, but had heard enough personal accounts, both through his work and elsewhere, to guess at a likely possibility. “You think he might have…” John trailed off. It felt too close to home with what he knew of Laszlo’s past, the similarities uncomfortable.

Laszlo picked up the thought, unfazed. “Might have been abused? It’s possible, yes.” To a stranger, he might have sounded detached, but John knew he would dedicate much of his time now to picking through the evidence and testimonies, and making the inevitable comparisons.

John would ensure he didn’t lose himself, and could think of a number of ways to keep him grounded. Starting with coffee.

“Here.” He offered the steaming mug as was his habit, handle pointed to Laszlo’s left, and Laszlo took it with a smile of gratitude. He was about to take his own coffee to the other chair, but Laszlo slid his feet toward him, freeing up the other end of the couch, a clear invitation for John to sit.

As soon as he was settled, Laszlo replaced his feet, setting them in John’s lap. John tried for an indignant retort but it was lost to a swell of fondness, surprised and touched by Laszlo’s comfortable intimacy. A further surprise came when Laszlo switched off his tablet and set it aside.

“You don’t have to stop,” John offered.

“No,” Laszlo agreed, added, “I want to.”

There was more behind the words, the rest left unspoken for John could see it all in those warm brown eyes, the desire to do nothing more than enjoy John’s company, to share a moment of calm after the madness that had somehow brought them here, brought them together.

John would remember to thank Sara for her part in that later, but for now he was happy to savor this new closeness, his hand coming to rest on Laszlo’s shin.

“How’s the coffee?”

“Okay.”

John shot Laszlo an offended glare, but one lacking any real heat. He was fighting to keep the smile from his face. “Just ‘okay’?”

“Not bad,” Laszlo granted, deadpan. “But not as good as Cyrus makes.”

“Bastard,” John groused, feigning anger at the insult, the squeeze he gave Laszlo’s ankle more affection than outrage. “Just you wait ’til you're healed, I’ll make you pay for that.”

Laszlo’s eyes sparkled with delightful mischief, his smile playful but filled with genuine warmth. With love.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

John laughed, the deep guffaw surprised out of him as his heart soared, happier than he’d been in a long time and inexpressibly excited for what the future – and Laszlo – promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to [writingmonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters) for the constant support and cheerleading. Danke (:


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